Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me. O well for the fisherman's boy That he shouts with his sister at play! O well for the sailor lad That he sings in his boat on the bay! And the stately ships go on, To the haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still! Break, break, break At the foot of thy crags, O sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...VARIATIONS: 12 by CONRAD AIKEN VICARIOUS ATONEMENT by RICHARD ALDINGTON CONTRA MORTEM: THE CHILD by HAYDEN CARRUTH CONTRA MORTEM: THE TREES by HAYDEN CARRUTH PERSPECTIVE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON YOUTH'S PROGENY by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON |